Chasing Sanity
by Black Sorceress
Summary: The Master clings to the Doctor, but it no longer holds the drums at bay. He still clings to him though. Implied Doctor/Master.


**Title:** Chasing Sanity

**Rating:** PGish

**Spoilers:** Hints at Utopia/SoD/LotTL

**Summary:** The Master clings to the Doctor, but it no longer holds the drums at bay. He still clings to him though.

**Characters:** Simm!Master, Jacobi!Master (briefly), Ten

**Pairing:** Implied Doctor/Master

**Warnings: **Angst, darkness, allusions to insanity (this is the Master, after all)

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, unfortunately. BBC owns them.

**Word count:** 784, completed

**Author's Note:** Another one! Master's PoV this time. I'm quite happy with this one, but I don't know that it'll make sense to anyone else. Had a friend read this over, and according to her it does, but I'm not convinced, so let me know what you think! Oh, and it takes place before then end of LoTL, so no dead Master. I may do a little follow-on to this, not really sure. Anyway, hope you enjoy, please review!

**Chasing Sanity**

The first thing the Master knew, as his Time Lord consciousness returned, was the drums. Endless, deafening, almost debilitatingly painful as they swept him along. For a moment, he couldn't see or hear or think. Worse than before, so much worse. Once they had been quiet, a dull accompaniment to his actions. Now they threatened to drown him.

Then came another awareness, almost worse than the drums. Beyond them, there was … nothing. No Time Lords, no jumble of telepathic feedback. Just one, tiny spark at the edge of his mind, almost overwhelmed by the drumming. But not quite. No, not quite, and he recognised it, a thrill running through him when he realised who it was, even as he shuddered under the onslaught and the knowledge that _they were the only two. _But maybe that was as it always had been. To him, at least, it had only ever been them. Even so, the strange emptiness made him cold, would probably have hurt if not for the drums. He gritted his teeth against them and moved on, got on, clinging to the presence at the edge of his consciousness, using it to clutch at his sanity, to keep the drums at bay.

He was shot. It burned, but not as much as his head did. Regeneration. Barely back five minutes and he was regenerating. There was irony in that; he always had gone through bodies far too quickly. Thoughts of irony were swept away, though, the energy pouring through him, but it _hurt_. More than it once had. More than it should have. Then he realised. No other Time Lords to act as a buffer _(but where were they?)_, his TARDIS was gone, no link to help guide him through it. This was what regenerating alone felt like.

And then it was over, and he was him again, but different. Regeneration mania was setting in, and oh! There was the Doctor. Pretty this time around. What number was he on now? New voice! New body! But still the Doctor, desperate, terrified, pleading. He had the upper hand, even with the drums still pounding, pounding, pounding. Time for a little role reversal. Time for the Doctor to chase _him_.

Off into the Vortex, spinning away, but the further he went the dimmer came the sense of the Doctor; the louder came the drums in his otherwise empty mind. Oh Rassilon, but it hurt.

He landed. There was no longer enough of a sense of the Doctor to cling to, to hold; he was too far away. The drums, though. They were closer, louder than ever, they _hurt_. He realised the moment before they overwhelmed him that he might have made a mistake, leaving the Doctor. He no longer had another mind to hold on to. There was nothing left to help him cling to his sanity in the face of the drumming.

The drums beat on.

*

By the time he found the Doctor again, it was too late. The drums had taken hold, and no matter how tightly he held on to the Doctor, it wasn't enough to regain what he had lost. The drums had hollowed him out, made him their own, and even the bright burn of the Doctor's mind couldn't change that.

The drumming never stopped. It never would, not until he did. So he knew. He knew that no matter how much the Doctor begged him to accept his help, he wouldn't, and the Doctor couldn't. He had helped, once, not so long ago, without even realising, and without even realising the Master had fled from that help. It was burned into him, that knowledge, and like the drumming it circled over and over, endless, eternal. It was fact. He couldn't change it; too late now. He clutched the Doctor to him anyway, still hoping. And maybe it was selfless, too, the last, tiny spark of care that he possessed channelled towards the idea that his presence might save the Doctor from the emptiness of a mind without drums or Gallifrey, so long as he held on tightly enough.

He couldn't be saved, but like this, the Doctor could; would never be alone again. It was the only thing he could offer. It was the only thing he could give, even as he took away everything else, destroyed and twisted it. Even then. The Doctor was broken, he could see that, could feel it. The drums demanded he hurt him more, and he did, he did. They could no longer be denied. But behind that, he stayed. He would never leave, and he would never let the Doctor leave. It would have to be enough.


End file.
